


The Trouble With Bilbo

by spaceylacey83



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Fluff, Flut, Food Kink, Frottage, Kink Meme, M/M, smut?, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2013-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-08 21:42:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceylacey83/pseuds/spaceylacey83
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this prompt on The Hobbit Kink Meme: "After reaching Beorn's house, the Company is starving and sits down to a nice meal. Because hobbits are more unused to going without food than dwarves are, Bilbo enjoys this meal more than most, moaning and making porn noises with every bite. Thorin gets distracted."</p><p>Thorin is flustered, Dwalin doesn't care for Beorn's dogs, and Bilbo isn't quite as stealthy as he intended to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Trouble With Bilbo

It all starts at Beorn’s dinner table.

Well, not _all_ of it. If Thorin Oakenshield is honest with himself then he can admit that it had started, technically, on the back of a pony not even a solid hour outside of Hobbiton. As a personal problem, it is entirely unseemly and unlike him and Thorin finds himself rather put off by it. It certainly isn’t very _Khazâd_ of him. 

At first, it is easy to dismiss or bury beneath the rage and determination simmering just beneath this quest in his heart. So much is buried there already, so many wants and feelings and desires that he cannot allow himself to indulge in while his life’s purpose remains unfulfilled, that it is easy to find a place for this to rest quietly until he is ready for it. Thorin has had nearly two hundred years’ worth of practice at this, after all, and he is quite good at it.

Bilbo Baggins is strange. He knows nothing of war, despite that the world is so often in its grip, and most of the hardships that Thorin considers a part of life are alien to him. For a person well past his culture’s age of majority, he is more akin to Thorin’s nephews in his sense of wonder at the world. It is almost endearing to watch him smiling at the trees or whistling to the songbirds, almost too easy to forget that this kind, excitable little fellow is supposed to be their burglar. Almost. When he reminds himself of this fact, the hobbit’s whimsy feels childish instead of endearing and his soft temper becomes a hazard. In these moments, Thorin feels surly enough to forget the fact that the hobbit is slowly working his way into his heart, right alongside the others in the company. He is not necessarily becoming Thorin’s friend but neither is he a mere acquaintance any longer. This ambiguity bothers Thorin when he considers it for too long, so he spends the majority of his time not really thinking of Bilbo at all until he does something plucky or reckless. Like, throwing himself at the orc beneath whose blade Thorin had fully expected to die. 

The trouble, though, it starts at Beorn’s house while they are all seated at the dinner table, enjoying the first proper meal any of them have had since Rivendell (though there are members of his company who would argue that they hadn’t a proper meal in Rivendell, either). Bilbo is situated a few spots down the large table, between Bofur and Kíli, and he looks even more compact than normal, sitting on his knees in his large wooden chair so that he can reach the tabletop comfortably. When he bites into the first ripe plum, Bilbo makes a rather distracting noise in the back of his throat that Thorin can only describe as _obscene_.

“Obviously, I should try the plums,” Kíli jokes and Bilbo flashes him a smile that is friendly and familiar. The two of them have grown quite close since the inception of this quest. The hobbit can often be found in the wake of Thorin’s high-spirited nephews, Kíli especially, and it is only another facet of Thorin’s personal problem that this perturbs him.

Bilbo does it again, later, over the sweet cakes. He takes a bite and then he makes this _sound_ and the expression on his face turns rapturous. “Oh my word, this is fantastic,” Bilbo sighs and his voice is weighted with the sort of pleasure Thorin usually experiences while… Well, _not_ while eating dinner in a strange house with bipedal dogs serving the soup. And he keeps doing it. Each bite sounds better than the one before as Bilbo works his way through the veritable cornucopia that Beorn has provided them. The sound smolders in Thorin’s gut like the coals of a fire and he finds himself thinking of Bilbo’s slim form in his arms, Bilbo’s soft curls against his cheek. Thorin only realizes that he is avidly watching the stretch of Bilbo’s parted pink lips around a ripe strawberry when Fíli, seated between Thorin and his brother, lays a discreet hand on his arm.

“Are you all right,” Fíli asks, his quiet voice mostly swallowed up by the raillery around them, and Thorin feels his ears heating up just like the rest of him. He clears his throat and nods his head and turns his attention toward the pile of food in front of him.

“Perfectly so,” he answers. Fíli gives him a doubtful look, though he doesn’t go so far as to voice this doubt. Then, not even a full five minutes later, Bilbo tries his first bite of the hearty soup and his audible appreciation draws Thorin’s attention all over again, just for a moment, just in time for him to watch Bilbo’s fine, curving, little mouth closing around the head of the spoon. Just long enough to realize that Bilbo is… _looking_ at him. Their gazes lock for an instant and something meaningful shines in Bilbo’s eyes before the contact is broken. 

Thorin is nearly two hundred years old. He is no child, incapable of controlling himself, and the fact that he is currently having trouble controlling himself bothers him, deeply. He shifts uncomfortably in his large seat and fills his mouth with soft bread.

“I know how you feel,” Dwalin says, from his other side and for one confusing moment, Thorin wonders if Dwalin is attempting to confide in him. Thorin looks from Bilbo to his old friend and Dwalin shifts awkwardly in his own seat before he continues. “It just doesn’t look right, these dogs walking about like this. How do you slice a sweet cake without any proper thumbs, that’s what I want to know. You reckon it’s magic or training? Magic training?”

“I…” Thorin trails off and, if he wasn’t so singularly flustered, it might almost be funny. “I don’t know? The latter, I suppose? There _are_ spells at work here, to be sure.”

“As long as they don’t shed in the pudding,” Dwalin decides, taking a bite of the very stuff and continuing with his mouth full. “It doesn’t quite sit well, all the same.” 

“No,” Thorin agrees, but it’s Bilbo that he watches out of the corner of his eye. “It doesn’t.”

***

It isn’t like he can just _tell_ Bilbo. The hobbit is his subordinate, his hireling, and there is much yet to be done, much yet to occupy Thorin’s thoughts. This is the sort of immature infatuation that Thorin might expect from one of his nephews, not a dwarf in his prime with his life’s quest before him and a company of hardy dwarves at his command. He reminds himself of these things often, lately, mostly because it’s easier and feels more sensible than worrying about whether he will be stepping on his nephew’s toes or whether he will ruin his own façade of respectability with an ill-timed admission. Only, it’s a bit difficult to keep that in mind, tucked away in Beorn’s cellar like this, hiding behind a shelf filled with clay wine pots with his hand down the front of his trousers and his teeth digging into his lower lip as he works out the frustrations leftover from dinner. It is a sorry substitute for what he wants but it will grant him some peace and so Thorin lets himself do it, quick, quiet, and perfunctory. He can close his eyes and think of the hobbit’s face or remember the feel of him – so warm and utterly pliant – in his arms, now. He can allow himself this much, though it feels indulgent in a way that he hasn’t allowed himself to be for decades. It certainly isn’t pretty, this messy shamble of want and shame and Thorin works himself like it’s more of a chore than anything else and engages in a bit of silent self-deprecation on the side.

The idea of anyone ever finding him like this, especially the hobbit in question, ranks pretty high on the list of the most horrifying things Thorin can imagine. So, when he hears the shattering sound of one of Beorn’s clay pots hitting the hard packed floor and hears an all too familiar voice spitting curses, he almost can’t believe it at first. Thorin freezes like a guilty child and it only occurs to him that his hand is still down his pants when he hears Bilbo’s voice again, slightly panicked now, from the other side of the shelf.

“I’m sorry! I was trying to… Well, I wasn’t trying to spy on you; I can promise you that, I was just…” The hobbit trails off and Thorin works to get his trousers fastened with fingers that are shaking so hard he can barely grasp the buttons. “Ugh, this isn’t how it was supposed to go. I’m covered in red wine and I feel like a lecher.”

Thorin, frowning deeply, gauges the direction of Bilbo’s voice and then pulls one of the clay pots from the shelf so that he can set it on the floor. When he looks through the hole he’s created, Bilbo is peering back at him with a sorrowful expression on his face.

It takes some doing, and for a long moment they stare at each other like a pair of dumb mutes, but Thorin does manage wrangle his voice into something other than a horrified squawk. 

“What did you need,” he asks, even though the question sounds absurdly businesslike in light of their current situation. Bilbo’s mouth opens, then closes again and, for a brief moment, the hobbit looks ready to bolt. 

“To talk to you,” he blurts after a hefty stretch of silence during which Thorin uses the cover of the shelf and its clay pots to straighten his clothing and fasten his belt. “I just thought that… Well, things have been different and I… I saw you at dinner, is all,” he finishes lamely and, despite Bilbo’s apparent efforts, Thorin understands just what he means. 

“How long have you been here,” Thorin wants to know now, his voice harder than he really means for it to be. He’s at least as embarrassed as the hobbit seems to be right now, after all. 

Bilbo doesn’t answer at first but, before Thorin can grow too frustrated with this stilted, awkward conversation, he says, “long enough to make myself feel like a lecher, I suppose.” He quickly adds, “That honestly wasn’t my intention. I had only thought to find a moment alone with you. There’s always someone about and I… Only you were…” Bilbo trails off again and makes a funny little noise in the back of his throat. Thorin feels his face heating up and he turns away from the gap between the pots and away from Bilbo’s anxious expression. There’s some part of him that is sure he should be affronted by all of this because Bilbo’s just admitted to spying on him while he pleasured himself. Thinking of it this way helps and Thorin squares his shoulders, ready to give the burglar a good dressing down from between the pots, only Bilbo chooses that moment to ask, “I don’t suppose that was anything to do with me, was it?”

Once again, Thorin finds himself almost too shocked to speak. The question comes off, somehow, as incredibly bashful and incredibly _forward_ at the same time and Thorin isn’t quite sure how the hobbit has managed it. He wants to rail and bluster over this violation of his privacy only the words are hard to come by while looking into the very face he’d had in mind the whole time. 

“Because it would be all right if it was,” Bilbo adds, though he sounds rather unsure of himself even as he says it. “Or if I’m just making an ass of myself, you could say that too. You could say anything, actually, and it would probably make me feel a great deal better. If that’s something you’re concerned about.” Thorin feels as though he has been rooted to the spot however and it seems to be taking longer than normal for his brain to translate Bilbo’s words into something meaningful. He works to piece the scenario together in his head, now that he’s beginning to recover from the initial shock. Bilbo’s followed him in here, wants to speak to him alone because of what happened at dinner, and he doesn’t mind that Thorin’s… _thoughts_ were centered on him. Then Bilbo says, “Bother! I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m still here. I’ll ju-.”

“It was to do with you,” Thorin says, hurriedly, and it seems to shut Bilbo up as effectively as a slap to the face.

“Really,” he answers after a long moment of stunned quiet, sounding suddenly rather breathless. Thorin nods his head and then, just like that, Bilbo is around the shelf and actually standing right in front of him with a garish red splash of wine decorating most of his trousers and the hem of his coat. Thorin almost laughs but the proximity feels electric, with Thorin’s own imagined Bilbo still in his mind’s eye and the real Bilbo looking at him with an expression of something like wonder on his face. “That’s… That’s good then.”

The silence between them grows thick. Thorin’s hands are shaking and his problem from earlier is back in full force. Bilbo looks pleased and shy and then they are kissing and Thorin isn’t even quite sure who’s made the first move. 

The kiss is everything their conversation is not. There is nothing shy or tentative or halting about it. The grip of Bilbo’s fingers is tight on Thorin’s shoulders and his compact form fits wonderfully into the circle of Thorin’s arms. The taste of him, sweet with the fruit and honey of Beorn’s dinner table, is warm and enticing and he takes Thorin’s kisses like he’s been waiting for them and echoes all the hunger and all the want that had driven Thorin down to the cellar in the first place. He cards his fingers through Bilbo’s curling hair, a fantasy made real all in its own right, and the sound that slips out of him at the feel of the cool strands between his fingers is almost embarrassing. Bilbo breaks the kiss then, though he hides his face in Thorin’s chest rather than actually pulling away. His shoulders shake and for one horrifyingly confusing moment, Thorin wonders if the hobbit is weeping.

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo says, voice slightly muffled, and Thorin realizes that he’s _laughing_. He looks up at Thorin, all messy curls and happy eyes, and says, “I really didn’t expect this to turn out so well. It’s not funny, it’s wonderful but I-,” only he cuts himself off with another half-stifled laugh. Thorin offers up a rather uncertain smile of his own but it seems like all it does is set the hobbit laughing all over again. “I’m so sorry; I don’t know why I’m… There’s nothing funny about this I just… I’ve been thinking about this since I met you, when I wasn’t ready to knock you on the head, at least. You’re very _gruff_ , is all I mean and I thought you didn’t like me which should have helped me to not like you, shouldn’t it? It didn’t though. I think I'll quit talking now...” This time, Bilbo’s laugh is nervous again and it’s all that Thorin can do not to share it with him.

“I feel considerably _less_ awkward than I did a few moments ago, really,” Thorin says and finally he smiles just a bit because he can’t _not_ any longer.

When Bilbo kisses him again, the force of it knocks Thorin back against the plastered wall. He manages one short, surprised grunt and then he has the sweet taste of Bilbo on his lips again, feels the hobbit’s slender fingers sliding over the fabric of his tunic, spreading over Thorin’s chest as if he could touch all of him at once. Thorin feels weak in the knees and hot all over and when he finds himself sliding down the wall, he wraps his arms around Bilbo and brings the hobbit with him. They end up in an ungainly pile against the wall and Bilbo spreads his knees wide so that he can settle more fully into Thorin’s lap. His warm weight sends a heady buzz through Thorin’s limbs and the contact wrings a moan from both of them. He can feel Bilbo through the fabric of their trousers, just as hard as Thorin is, and when their eyes meet once more the laughter is gone from Bilbo’s, replaced by something carnal that makes Thorin shiver with want. They don’t speak anymore, too busy with kisses and the press of their bodies and the delightful friction building between them and Thorin can’t help thinking to himself that it’s been at least a century since he’s been involved in anything so entirely _sensual_. Especially anything with this many layers of clothing involved.

When it happens, Thorin finds himself caught off guard by his own release, as sudden and blinding as a lightning strike, and he drops his head back against the plaster wall, biting back a deep groan and gripping Bilbo tightly against him. The hobbit kisses him sweetly, almost frantically and says something silly and mostly unintelligible about the stars, then reaches down between their shifting bodies to palm himself through the fabric of his pants and the sight of it nearly makes Thorin hard all over again. As many times as he’s imagined that expression on that face, it turns out he’s never gotten it quite right. It’s beautiful, Bilbo is beautiful and Thorin reaches out before he can really stop himself and pushes Bilbo’s hand away so that he can replace it with his own. That’s all it seems to take; a few moments later sees Bilbo losing himself as well and he gasps out Thorin’s name, rutting against the pressure of Thorin’s hand until he is spent. 

There’s one long stretch where Bilbo looks dumbly at him and Thorin looks, just as dumbly, back at Bilbo. Then Bilbo’s face lights up with a bashful grin and he lays his forehead on Thorin’s shoulder and laughs again, quietly. This time, Thorin joins him and they sit there in a sweaty, dirty heap on the packed earth and laugh until their faces hurt.

“So,” Bilbo says, once they have calmed down again, his breath warm against Thorin’s neck, his fingers slipping idly into Thorin’s dark hair. “I suppose what I mean to say is that I’m really very attracted to you, and I think you might be attracted to me as well.” 

Thorin chuckles quietly. “I think you might just have it, Bilbo,” he answers and he can feel the hobbit smiling against his neck. They sit like that for a while and Thorin basks in the warm companionable feeling of it all, quietly enjoying the way Bilbo’s fingers play in his hair and the comfortable weight of Bilbo’s body against his chest.

“Thorin?”

“Hm?”

“I don’t think we thought this through,” Bilbo says, which is the understatement of a lifetime, really. “I didn’t bring a change of clothes for one thing and, look, I’ve got wine all over you too.”

“I’m confident you’ll be able to sort it,” Thorin says and maybe it’s the post-orgasmic haze but he finds that he really can’t be bothered by such petty details just yet. Not when he’s still just getting his breath back from the best not sex that he’s ever had.

“Ah,” Bilbo answers. “All right, then. Let’s just… sit here, while I come up with a plan.” Only he sighs contentedly and hooks one arm over Thorin’s shoulder, settles a little more comfortably into his lap. They stay like that for some time, Thorin with his nose in Bilbo’s curly hair and Bilbo wrapped around him like a blanket, and even though Bilbo drifts off rather than offering up any cunning plans, Thorin isn’t really in the biggest hurry to move. 

It’s probably the worst place to fall asleep if he wants to keep this tryst a secret but the only thing Thorin really worries about before he dozes off is whether or not he can get Beorn’s dogs to wash his trousers for him.


End file.
